Page 60 of Silent Vows

“Come on,” I murmur, slipping an arm around her waist to guide her to our bedroom. Step by step, we make our way inside, where the afternoon sun streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The golden light bathes everything in warmth, catching on the edges of her hair and skin, making her look like something divine. I want to worship every inch of her, but first…

“Let me clean these,” I murmur, retrieving the first aid kit we now keep in every room. Her eyes follow me as I tend toher wounds—the cut above her eyebrow, her split lip, the bruise darkening her jaw. Each mark makes rage build in my chest, but I keep my touch gentle.

Her eyes never leave me, watching every move I make with a mix of trust and quiet intensity. I work my way to her split lip, dabbing at it with a damp cloth. Her breath hitches when I touch the corner of her mouth, and I freeze, afraid I’ve hurt her.

“I’m fine,” she whispers, her voice hoarse but firm.

I nod, resuming my work, but each bruise and scrape I uncover sends a sharp pang of rage through my chest. When I reach the deep purple bruise darkening her jaw, I pause, my fingers trembling. She places her hand over mine, grounding me.

“It’s okay,” she says softly. “I’m here.”

“Your turn,” she says when I finish, helping me remove my shirt. Her fingers trace the edges of my bandage with an artist’s precision. “We’re quite a pair.”

“We are.” I catch her hand, pressing it against my heart. “My brave, beautiful, impossible wife.”

“Your wife,” she echoes, her voice thick with emotion, pulling me down for a kiss that steals my breath. “Show me.”

I don’t rush. My hands find the buttons of her jacket, undoing them one by one. The designer fabric is stained with blood, a grim reminder of everything we’ve endured. And as it falls away, I focus only on her—on the soft curves of her body, the golden glow of her skin in the sunlight. Her blouse follows, slipping off her shoulders to reveal more bruises, more signs of the fight she survived. Each injury is a reminder of how close I came to losing her, but each breath, each heartbeat proves she’s here, alive,mine. When she’s finally bare beneath me, I worship her with lips and hands and whispered devotion in Italian.

“Every mark,” I murmur, brushing my lips over the dark bruise blooming on her collarbone, “is proof of how strong you are.”

Her breath hitches, and her hands move to my belt, fingers deftly working the buckle. There’s no hesitation in her movements, only quiet determination as she tugs the leather free and sets it aside. When she looks up at me, her eyes are steady.

“Your turn,” she says again, this time with a hint of a challenge.

I let her push my pants down, the fabric pooling at my feet as she sits back to take me in. Her own hands aren’t idle, mapping my skin like she’s memorizing me for a painting. Each touch leaves fire in its wake, building something between us that’s both tender and devastating.

When she leans back against the pillows, I move to join her. My hands slide down her sides, fingers catching the waistband of her pants. I ease them down, piece by piece, until she’s bare beneath me. Her beauty steals my breath.

I trail kisses along her body, starting at her collarbone and working my way lower. My hands map every curve, every hollow, learning her anew. Her skin is soft under my palms, warm and alive, and I can’t stop murmuring soft words in Italian—praises, prayers, confessions of love.

“Ti amo,” I whisper against her throat, tasting her pulse. “Ti amo, tesoro mio.”

Her hands tangle in my hair, her nails grazing my scalp as she arches beneath me. Her body responds to every kiss, every touch, her breaths coming faster. When her voice breaks on a whisper, “Show me,” it’s all I can do to hold on to the last threads of control.

I slide back up her body, capturing her lips in a kiss that’s deep and unhurried. When I finally join our bodies, theconnection feels like coming home. We move together slowly, savoring each sensation, each shared breath. It’s different from our other times—less desperate, more tender. A celebration of life and love and belonging. Her hands tangle in my hair as I worship her with lips and tongue, learning every sound she makes, every way she moves.

Her release builds slowly, beautifully, until she comes apart beneath me whispering my name like a prayer. The sight of her—flushed and perfect, trusting me with her pleasure—sends me over the edge after her. My forehead rests against hers as we both tremble through the aftershocks. For a moment, the world narrows to just us, just this, just love.

After, I hold her close as our heartbeats slow. The setting sun paints our room in shades of gold and crimson, but all I see is her—my salvation, my future, my heart.

A knock interrupts us—Antonio with updates about the Calabrese family’s reaction to Johnny’s death, about Elena’s statement, about a thousand things that need our attention.

But for now, I just hold my wife close, feeling her heartbeat against my chest. Because we have time now. Time to love, to heal, to build something stronger than blood or duty or arranged marriages.

We have forever.

And forever, I’m learning, is just the beginning.

26

BELLA

Four weeks after Johnny’s death, I stand in my studio at the mansion, studying my latest piece. The canvas towers over me, six feet of emotion poured onto linen in oils. In the center, three figures emerge from a maelstrom of darkness and light—a man, a woman, and a girl, their features suggested rather than defined. I’ve used every shade of blue and black in my collection, building layers of shadow that seem to breathe. Gold leaf catches light where it breaks through the darkness, like hope emerging from chaos. The man’s protective stance, the woman’s outstretched hand, the girl’s lifted chin—family, protection, belonging, all the themes that have consumed me since that day in Matteo’s office.

The brush slips from my paint-stained fingers as a wave of dizziness hits. I’ve been working too long without eating, lost in the flow of creation. I steady myself against my worktable, breathing deeply. The familiar scent of turpentine and oils that usually comforts me now seems overwhelming.

“It’s different from your other work.”

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